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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451229">From the Mixed-Up Files of Ms. Nile E. Freeman</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CDRomelle/pseuds/CDRomelle'>CDRomelle</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CDRomelle/pseuds/Emotionally%20Compromised%20Robots'>Emotionally Compromised Robots (CDRomelle)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>From The Mixed-Up Files Of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - E. L. Konigsburg, The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, Gen, a little bit of Book of Nile, booker and quynh are there too because i do what i want, just some old people chilling in a museum after hours</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:28:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451229</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CDRomelle/pseuds/CDRomelle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CDRomelle/pseuds/Emotionally%20Compromised%20Robots</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The immortals crash for the night at their safe house in New York City: the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Each of the six have their own special relationship with pieces in the Museum's collection.</p><p>Inspired by the book "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler" by E.L. Konigsburg.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>188</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>From the Mixed-Up Files of Ms. Nile E. Freeman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This popped into my head the other day and I couldn't get it out. I haven't read the book in over a decade so this was all from memory and a bit of rifling through the Met's website.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>
  <span>From the Mixed-Up Files of Ms. Nile E. Freeman</span>
</h1><p>
  <span>"Finally," said Nile as they passed 80th Street. "Let's go, let's go." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"If you're in such a rush, we could have stayed on the train," Andy said. "Easily made it to Maine by midnight…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," said Nile, Nicky and Joe at the same time. Booker sighed. Quynh giggled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy rolled her eyes. "All this fuss over our least comfortable safe house in the Americas."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh shut up, you like the Greek and Roman Wing," Nile said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I like it because half the shit in there is mine."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"An exaggeration," said Quynh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"At least five things in there are mine," Andy groused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe and Nicky exchanged an unreadable glance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile rolled her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The city sidewalks, always full of people, were even more crowded as they approached the building's broad stone steps, and the six of them had to separate a bit to slip through the crowd. Nile stayed at Booker's side as they walked, leaning into his shoulder a bit so the others wouldn't hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This time's the time." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughed, looking a bit embarrassed, but said, "Not a chance." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This time's the time," Nile repeated. "I can feel it. I'll find it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't doubt your skill," he said. "But I don't doubt mine, either." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You just have a two hundred year head start is all. Pretty soon I'll be able to spot every one of your forgeries just like that." Nile snapped her fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well then." At the top of the stairs, Booker made a little bow as he gestured her toward the rotating door. "After you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Merci, bon gentilhomme," Nile laughed as she pushed on the door and entered the Metropolitan Museum of Art. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>* </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The job that brought them to the United States hadn't been in New York City. It had been five hours south: a white supremacist compound in central Pennsylvania, now no more. They had gotten on the Amtrak in Harrisburg, cleaned the last of the blood off of themselves as best they could in the train bathroom, then Joe, Nicky and Andy had dozed in their seats while Quynh, Nile and Booker played cards, Booker struggling valiantly to stay awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they had rolled into Penn Station, Booker had lost his battle with his eyelids but Nicky was awake, one arm around Joe (still out cold with his head on Nicky's shoulder) and solemnly egging Nile and Quynh on with increasingly high wagers in one or the other's favor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy groaned as she levered herself out of her seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Come on, we've still got to walk fifty blocks." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside the museum the air had the cool and clear taste of air conditioning. Nile and Joe both grabbed brochures, Nicky looking over Joe's shoulder and Booker pretending not to peer over Nile's. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh," Nile exclaimed. "There's an Augusta Savage exhibit!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy looked at her watch. "We have two hours until the museum closes. I'm going to the dining room." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Get me a caprese sandwich?" Nile asked, shooting Nicky a little smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head at her, mouth frowning but eyes twinkling. "I have no opinions on Napolitano cuisine. Andy, please get me a personal pizza." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Me too, and a coca cola," said Joe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We should have stopped somewhere nice before we got here," said Booker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're free to go find yourself something," Quynh said with a little smirk. "Since you don't care about the art."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker sighed. "Rice pilaf, please." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They broke off into pairs without further discussion: Andy and Quynh to the cafe, Joe and Nicky to European Sculpture and Decorative Arts, and Nile and Booker to the American Wing, where the Augusta Savage exhibit was set up in a side gallery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile took a deep breath as they moved slowly from statue to statue. "If one of these is your forgery I might have to kill you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not at all," said Booker. "I could never approach this." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two hours flew by in that one room. Soon the announcement warning that the museum was about to close pulled them reluctantly from the exhibit. Without speaking, they threaded through the crowd to the bathrooms, Booker tossing her a little salute as they entered their respective rooms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The women's room was nearly empty, only a few people rushing to use the facilities before leaving the museum. Nile took a stall near to but not quite at the end. She closed the door but left it open just a crack, put down the toilet seat, and climbed up on it, tucking her knees to her chest. All that there remained to do was wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile closed her eyes and imagined there was a song playing in her mind. Jimi Hendrix's cover of Bob Dylan's "All Along the Watchtower." She got through the entire song ten times before she heard the tread of footsteps entering the bathroom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had done this before, but still Nile held her breath as the security guard trundled down the bathroom aisle, stooping to peer under the stall doors as he went. His shadow approached Nile's stall, stopped in front of it, and moved on. After one more rendition, he turned out the bathroom lights and was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile looked at her watch. She waited another fifteen minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she left the bathroom the museum was darker now, only a few auxiliary lights on, bathing the high-ceilinged halls in gray and yellow. Booker was waiting by the water fountain, his sunglasses back on. He tilted them at Nile and raised his eyebrows, making her giggle, then took them off and the two headed down the hall toward the Fountain of the Muses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were the first to arrive at the fountain--it was in the American Wing, after all--so Nile and Booker took their shoes off and kicked their feet in the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the others arrived, Andy and Quynh with trays of food from the commissary and Nicky and Joe with paper towels and plastic cups of hand soap pumped from the bathroom dispenser, the six of them stripped their clothes off with military efficiency--they had  lived too long, and seen too many of each other's innards, to feel awkward now--and waded into the fountain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was about knee deep, just enough to lie back and fully submerge in the cool, slightly chlorinated water. Andy dunked her head under and then reared up, shaking her short hair like a dog. Joe stood under a stream of water spouting from a muse's mouth like it was a shower, scrubbing bathroom soap under his armpits and making Quynh and Nicky laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker tapped Nile's shoulder, who was sitting in the water with her back against the side, her hair hanging over the lip of the pool to keep it dry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Here," he said gruffly. "It's not great, but I thought--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He extended a plastic bag toward her, the one he'd gotten at the Strand bookstore sidewalk display in Central Park they had passed as they trekked from Penn Station to the Met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile grinned. "Thanks, Seba." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's nothing, I should have gotten a better one--" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, hush." Nile put the plastic bag over her head, making sure her braids were coiled inside it, then tied it around the top of her forehead. "How do I look?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker chuckled and tightened one of the ties, his thumb brushing against her forehead. "You look beautiful." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile scootched her behind forward and sank lower into the water until it came up to her chin. She sighed. "This feels great." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They broke into the food from the commissary soon after, passing around paper-wrapped sandwiches and small cardboard boxes of pizza and little packets of salt and pepper. Nile, not for the first time, basked in the simple joy of eating while naked in a pool of water. She felt like an ancient princess. She could laugh out loud from the joy of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, Nile!" said Joe from across the pool. "Did you find it yet?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will," she replied. "Tonight's the night. You can bet on it." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe grinned. "Someone can, that's for sure." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm," said Nicky, beside him. He was floating on his stomach in the water, his mouth half-submerged, his hands doing something on the fountain floor. "I've lost a lot of money betting on you, Nile." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've lost a lot of money betting, period," she retorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Maybe you should back Booker this time," said Joe, winking at Nile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ten dollars Booker maintains his streak," Nicky said, lifting his hands. They were full of coins he'd dredged up from the fountain floor. "And thirty-four cents."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only ten dollars?" said Joe. "That's as good as betting on Nile." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, come on," said Booker, "Have some faith." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky pushed a mouthful of water out of his mouth and said, "</span>
  <span>Omnes enim ex eo, quod abundabat illis, miserunt: haec vero de penuria sua omnia quae habuit misit totum victum suum."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can quote the Bible in vernacular now, you know," Nile said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Non id agnosco," said Nicky with mock gravity, but his lips twitched when she giggled again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dessert was little bags of Famous Amos chocolate cookies and canned wine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Where's Quynh?" said Nile when they were finished eating and had started to prune in the water. Quynh was indeed gone, her cookies and wine half-finished on the lip of the pool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"She slipped away a few minutes ago," said Andy, patting herself dry with a paper towel and donning her jeans with casual efficiency. "See you all tomorrow. Entrance hall, nine thirty." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You got it, boss," said Joe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy pulled on her tee shirt and strode off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Should we…" Nile began. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't worry about it," said Joe. "Andy's got it. Anyway, Nile, it's your turn in the Untermeyer bed." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nile's eyes lit up. "Oh yeah!" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh hadn't thought Andromache would be able to find her so fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, maybe a gallery of ancient Egyptian sarcophagi was more obvious than she had thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache said nothing, just stood behind where Quynh sat crouched, still naked, in front of the sarcophagus of Khnumnakht. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's so colorful," Quynh said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache hummed her agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you think--" Quynh began. She swallowed, and started again. "Those other ones are open," she said, pointing to two other enormous stone coffins, propped open for visitors to see their carven insides. "I like that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache said slowly in Vietnamese, "Have you ever dreamed of--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Quynh said quickly. "No one else but us." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well then…" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh dropped her gaze, then bit her lip. What was she, a coward? She raised her eyes to look directly into Andromache's. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache squared her shoulders. "All right. But you better help me with this." She braced her shoulder against the coffin's lid and only then did Quynh realize what was happening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Andromache--"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Careful," Andromache grunted. "Just enough for a peek." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh planted her hands on the sarcophagus lid. The lines beneath her palms might have been etched before her birth, but only just. They might have been etched just after her first death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pushed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stone grated, low and loud, as it yielded to them bit by bit. Quynh wrinkled her nose as the scent of dust and stale air filled her lungs. Andromache gave the corner of the lid one last shove, then stood back. The top left corner of the sarcophagus was now exposed, a triangle of darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache had a flashlight in her hand. She held it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh suddenly felt like her body had turned to stone, stiff and cold. Furious with herself, she tried to force her body forward, and succeeded only in swaying on the spot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache waited, without a word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh took a deep breath. Her hands had curled into fists. She unclenched them, finger by finger. Another deep breath. On her exhale, she stepped forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers brushed Andromache's palm as she took the flashlight from her, a motion as familiar as trading swords, axes, hands on the reigns of a horse. She turned it on, and held it above the dark corner of the sarcophagus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One more deep breath, her lungs protesting against more than just the musty air, and Quynh tilted her head to peer inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Empty," she said finally. "It's empty." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache nodded. "When you're ready, then." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They replaced the sarcophagus lid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh stole a glance at Andromache. "Thank you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache smiled. "Don't thank me yet." She held up a backpack she'd had slung over her shoulder. "I still have your clothes." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh chased her through the Egyptian Wing, around the sculptures and glass cases of jewelry and combs and books. It wasn't until they reached the huge open room of the Sackler Wing that Quynh was able to pounce on her and bring the two of them crashing to the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not fair," Andromache gasped as they rolled beneath the skylights. "You herded me in here like a wolf separating a sheep from the herd." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"In my defense," said Quynh, "you are a very tasty sheep." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andromache's laughter echoed off the high glass walls and the sandstone temple sitting incongruously in the center of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh dressed herself while still straddling Andromache's hips, only letting the other woman up when she was done. They washed the dust of the sarcophagus off their hands in the small fountain ringing the room, then approached the sandstone building at the center. The Temple of Dendur, gifted from Egypt to the Met just a few years earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I preferred it before the French got their hands on it," Andromache said archly, tracing the two-hundred-year-old graffiti engraved by Napoleon's soldiers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I want to sleep inside it," said Quynh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay," said Andromache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside the little temple the air was close but clear. It didn't smell old. It smelled like sand. The two of them stepped over the little velvet rope keeping visitors from going too far past the threshold and lay down on the smooth stone floor, worn down with two millennia's worth of feet. They had no blankets other than the sweatshirts Booker had bought them in the Philadelphia train station, but it was a warm night and they had slept in far worse conditions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they lay side-by-side on their backs, Quynh reached out and squeezed Andromache's hand. Andromache squeezed back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quynh closed her eyes, and slept. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The journey this painting took," said Joe, "to get from Florence to New York City. Amazing."  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky shrugged one shoulder. "We are none of us where we should be." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joe tore his eyes from the painting to level Nicky with a glare. "We are exactly where we should be." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky couldn't help the smile that bloomed across his face. "I can't argue with that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slipped his hand into Joe's and they went back to looking at the painting before them: an enormous oil painting of an olive-skinned man, nude but for a cloth draped artfully around his waist, tied to a tree and pierced by arrows. His head was thrown back in an agony suspiciously like ecstasy, so that only a sliver of his profile was visible: the chin, the tip of his nose, a small mole on his cheek. Next to the painting, a plaque read: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Portrait of Saint Sebastian. Unknown artist. Florence, 15th century. Oil on canvas." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And below that--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you see the new plaque?" said Joe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I was hoping you didn't." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'An unknown painter, but speculated to be Michaelangelo himself." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Ah, well," said Nicky. "It's the lighting. It took you years to grow beyond his stylistic influence."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seventeenth century at least," Joe agreed, mock-serious, but with a bit of color in his cheeks. "You flatterer." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nicky bumped his shoulder into Joe's, then embraced him, cheek-to-cheek so they could continue looking at Saint Sebastian. "It's simply true." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An easy silence fell between them, Nicky rocking them very slightly as Joe leaned into his arms. They had been past the painting earlier, among the crowds of other visitors, listening to murmured admirations in a dozen different languages, but now it was just the two of them, the gallery dark and empty and quiet but for their soft breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sent a chill down both their spines, every time. Anyone could see this painting, if they could get to New York City, but how many had ever gotten to be with it as they were right now? As if the whole museum was their private collection, the art theirs to share breath with, theirs to treasure?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I wish we could stay longer," Joe said finally.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I know," said Nicky. "But at least we will sleep under the same roof as San Sébastiano again."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>* </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Irvin Untermyer," said Nile, spreading her arms. "You have magnificent taste." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker wrinkled his nose. "Un peu trop monarchiste pour moi." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"As if you wouldn't have slept in a bed like this if you could have." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were back in the American Wing, in front of a four-poster bed draped in richly embroidered dark red valences and curtains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well," said Booker. "I will next time. Tonight, it's yours." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Seriously?" Nile rolled her eyes. "It's more than big enough for both of us, I think." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker shifts his feet. "I thought you might want a bed to yourself." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Booker," said Nile. "Share the bed with me." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His small smile was almost bashful. "Okay." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The platform on which the bed sat was alarmed, so they took flying leaps over it directly onto the covers. Nile was giggling as they wiggled under the covers. "Careful! This is an antique!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Remember that the next time we spar," Booker huffed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sheets were stiff but smooth to the touch, the bed just big enough for them to lie side-by-side without touching but small enough that she could feel the warmth from Booker's body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the darkness, she smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hey, Nile," Booker grunted, already sounding groggy. "You didn't make your guess." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Which piece is mine. My forgery, I mean." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I didn't?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hm," said Nile. "I guess that means we'll have to come back to the Met soon, then."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. Then Booker said, "Yeah, I guess it does." He cleared his throat. "It also means you owe Nicky ten dollars and thirty-four cents." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm good for it," Nile laughed. "It's all part of my long game, anyway." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A hustle, huh?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You could call it that." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker chuckled. "Good night, Nile." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bonne nuit, Seba." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow they will continue north to Maine, where they will find a boat to take them to Greenland, or Iceland, whatever gets them closer to their eventual goal of Monaco, where a new job awaits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But for now they slept, tucked among the other treasures of centuries gone by.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In the book this is inspired by, the main characters stay at the museum past closing time by hiding in the bathrooms with their feet up on the toilet, they bathe in the Fountain of the Muses and buy food with coins they collect from it, they sleep in the Untermeyer bed, and they investigate a small marble statue that may or may not have been sculpted by Michaelangelo. That's all I remember from the book but it's just so charming and cute that it's stuck with me. </p><p>When Nicky speaks Latin in the fountain, he's quoting Mark 12:44, which is his way of saying that ten dollars and thirty-four cents is a lot of money because it's all the money he has in the world. "Non id agnosco" means, "I don't acknowledge this." </p><p>Nile loving Augusta Savage came from Tumblr user cactusdragon517, who said in an of-scythia ask that they headcanon that Nile's favorite kind of art is sculpture and that Augusta Savage is her favorite sculptor. I loved this idea so much that I worked it into the fic! The sarcophagus of Khnumnakht, the Temple of Dendur and the Untermeyer bed are real pieces in the Museum's collection but the specific painting of San Sebastiano that appears here is my own invention, based on a composite of Renaissance works depicting the saint (many of which were extremely erotic!). </p><p>Talk to me on tumblr at emotionallycompromisedrobots about which five pieces in the Greek and Roman Art exhibit belonged to Andy :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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